All Because She Burnt
by FallingStar97
Summary: France is still very depressed centuries after Jeanne D'Arc is burnt at the stake, how will the others snap him out of this state? Will he survive? Pairings: FrancexJeanne, possible FrUk Rated T for dark themes.
1. Part 1

30th of May, 1431 – England.

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The atmosphere is rowdy. Two guards gripped tightly onto the arms of a young woman whose hands were bound behind her. They led her through the crowd and up into the platform with a stake, sticks and straw and tied her to the post. The crowd chanted menacingly, "Witch! Witch! Witch!".

England watched from a distance with a frown, crossing his arms over his chest. He was not happy with the councils decision on what to do with Joan of Arc, it was a bit overboard on his opinion.

Joan of Arc was bound to the stake. She looked down at her feet before proudly leveling her gaze with the crowd, if she was going to die, it would be with pride for her country, France. A guard lit a torch and held it up, the crowd roared, their chanting growing louder. England turned away, disgusted with the behaviour of his people.

Through all the chanting of the crowd, one cry could be heard. A Frenchman with long, blond hair tried to break through the crowd, but was immediately seized by guards. He punched one in the face, desperate to get to the woman tied to the stake, but he was quickly overpowered but at least 10 guards, who even them seemingly struggled to keep him there. Jeanne D'Arc watched this, both glad that someone actually cared that she was going to die, but also in worry for the man, as they were very close friends and she didn't want him to be hurt.  
"JEANNE!" France cried out, sobbing and trying to break free of those restraining him. A council official ordered for the guard to proceed with the trial. The Guard dropped the burning torch onto the bundle of straw and sticks which quickly burst into flames. Jeanne squeezed her eyes shut as a few tears of fright slid down her cheeks. France struggled, cried and screamed, but to no avail. Jeanne D'Arc burnt at the stake without a sound.

Once the deed was done, France gave up all fighting and fell to his knees, hiding his face in his hands. The first person he had truly loved was gone…  
The guards yanked him to his feet and took the destroyed man to England, throwing him at his feet. England looked down at France with somewhat pity, but he didn't really care about his nemesis. France sat up, although he was slumped, his hair covering his face.

"… Why?" he said, his voice barely a whisper, "Why did you do that?"  
England frowned, "Because she was convicted of being a witch. That is a crime worthy of being burnt at the stake. She's only a human." he stated simply. France looked up at him looking even more crushed. He got to his feet and stared at England in the eye. "… Y-You… You bastard!" he cried out, punching him with all his might. Guards had him quickly restrained and he was taken away. England watched him leave, rubbing his pained jaw. England heard France scream one last as he was being dragged away, "I LOVED HER! I HATE YOU!"

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_Ok, this was my first fanfic that I decided to publish, hope it isn't too horrible! Thanks for reading~_


	2. Part 2

30th of May, 2001 – France.

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France sat in the cemetery, drinking heavily. He only ever got his drunk this time of the year. Spain and Prussia, his two best friends, try to cheer him up every year to no avail, and watch in dismay and France becomes more and more depressed, knowing there is no way they can help, they thought he would of at least somewhat gotten over her by now, but no. He clutched his bottle and a single rose to his chest, sobbing and kneeling in front of the memorial that had been created for Jeanne D'Arc, a heroine of France in the 1400s, the woman who he'd fallen for.

It had been a few hundred years, and he still wasn't over her death, in fact he felt worse than ever, he was absolutely crushed without her. He was a complete mess – his hair messy and tangled, he looked like he hadn't slept for weeks with bags under his eyes, he was think from not eating. He just looked half dead. He had let addiction take a hold of him, he smoked, drank, and used drugs, but none of it helped ease his pain. He just wanted her back. "J-Jeanne… what do I do?" he asked, half expecting a reply. The only answer was the rustling of the trees in the wind. He looked up to the dark skies, hoping for some kind of a sign. 'At least the heavens also mourn…' he thought, noting the unusual colour. The atmosphere only worsened his mood. He lay back and lit a cigarette, holding the rose to his chest and smoking it, staring up at the sky. "Mon dieu… I wish you were here…" he whimpered, tears running down his cheeks.

A few hours later, England came to visit the memorial. He felt horribly guilty for what he did all those years ago, and that he did nothing to stop it. He was not expecting to see France there at that hour, thinking he'd be perhaps getting drunk at a pub. He kept his distance and watched him silently as France got to his feet and stamped out a cigarette before stumbling in the opposite direction. England followed, quickly paying his respects to Jeanne as he passed, slightly worried for his safety. He obviously wasn't in his right mind.  
France stumbled his way to just out of the area, England following behind him silently. France soon arrived at a bridge and stood there, just watching the water and drinking, but he soon started sobbing again.  
England watched on, looking and feeling extremely guilty. He hadn't meant to cause this much pain to anyone, not even his worst enemy.

The drugs from the cigarette didn't help at all, in fact now he felt one thousand times worse. He thought over his life and decisions. And then he snapped. He realised suddenly, all at once, that there was nothing for him here. Canada and Seychelles had been taken away from him. Jeanne was gone. Then there's Spain and Prussia, he could see their doubts in him and would soon leave his side, they were obviously growing tired of him. Then there would be no one. He would be all alone. He was already alone. All the pressure of the loneliness put pressure on him as he broke down, leaning on the railing. His head spun and his stomach churned, just feeling horrible. His drug affected mind started playing tricks on him, and he could see Jeanne! Jeanne was in the water far below calling to him! He stared at her in shock. But this was obviously an invitation - to join her. He climbed up onto the railing, staring at her below. "I'm coming…." he whispered.


	3. Part 3

**Sorry for the wait guys, I got caught up in the Christmas and New Years holidays, plus I had a bit of writer's block, but here it is.**

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England watched as France climbed up onto the railing. _Wait, he wouldn't!_ he thought to himself. Deciding not to take any chances, he quickly ran over. France hear someone running up behind him, but ignored them, rubbing his eyes on his sleeve and taking a deep breath, preparing for the dive, when someone grabbed his arm.  
"Francis! Please, don't do this!" England said urgently, trying to either convince him to come down, or forcibly get him down, "You're going to fall, you git!"  
France cast him a sad look, "Please, I-I just want to be with her." he cried, his voice breaking. He was shaky on his feet, he glanced back to the water, his eyes searching for her, only to see Jeanne was gone. Feeling hollow, he broke down.

Unsure of what was going on, and assuming he was scared, England said "I know, and I will never be able to apologise enough for taking her away from you, but jumping off that bridge won't do any good, just… just please get down. Think of your people, they _need_ you, they won't stand a chance without you." England's grip tightened on his arm.

France gulped, wobbling a little and rubbing his eyes again. He was right, his people did need him. His people were always his priority, it was always that way. They had to do what was best for everyone, disregarding any self wants or feelings. He knew this, everyone did.

England watched different emotions flicker through France's face: sadness, distress, then realisation, before he hung his head, stopping any struggling against England. England sighed in relief, "Will you come down now?" he asked hesitantly. France paused for a very long moment before replying with a nod, sniffling from his runny nose and rubbing his eyes again. As England let go to help him down properly, France suddenly toppled backwards, falling off the railing.


	4. Part 4

England's eyes widened and he dived towards the railing, reaching over to try and grab France, almost falling himself from the distance he dangled himself down, but he was too late. He watched horrified as he fell, oh god it was so far down. As France fell off, he screamed in alarm, his arms searching for something to grab onto, but finding nothing and he continued to fall, the last thing he saw was a distant view of England's terrified face.

When he landed in the water, it hurt so much. He cried out, water flooding into his mouth. The impact of the water almost knocked him unconscious, and he struggled to stay afloat, being taken downstream. He was bashed around by the rocks, becoming battered and bruised. He tried to swim against the current to shore, but it was too strong, and eventually dragged him under.

When France had hit the water, England ran. He ran down the road and jumped a fence to stumble and tumble down the steep cliff leading down to the rivers edge, tripping up and falling down the hill. He landed at the bottom with a thud, winding himself. He shakily got to his feet and searched around desperately for his blonde head bobbing in the water, becoming frightened when he was nowhere to be seen. He started running downstream along the water's edge, searching and calling out for him. "FRANCIS?!" he screamed, "WHERE ARE YOU?!" But it was to no avail, for he received no reply.

England's running began to slow as he became exhausted. Tears pricked his eyes. What was that fucking idiot thinking?! Now… now he was gone… probably for good. He knew they didn't get along, but the thought of never seeing his stupid face again stung, and he soon found himself crying. He ran and ran, searching all through the river for even a trace of him, finding nothing. He was just… gone.


	5. Part 5

Francis eventually was washed up at the end of the river at the shore of the lake it spread out into. He was unconscious, battered and bruised, covered in gashes from the rocks. Honestly, if he wasn't a country and more sturdy than that, he would have been dead. He was barely breathing, and even if he was a country, he wouldn't survive much longer.

England had gone back for his car and driven to the lake at the end, hoping to find him there. He parked the car and walked through the thin line of forest until he reached the waters edge. He sighed, looking around and rubbing at his eyes, trying not to cry. He walked along the waters edge, breathing heavily and anxiously tugging at his own hair, looking everywhere for him. In the distance, he saw what looked like a figure, and he had blonde hair. He cried out in relief and ran over.

He screeched to a stop and fell to his knees next to him, quickly checking his vitals. "F-Francis? Francis!" he called, urging him to wake up. He leant down and put his head to his chest, listening for a heartbeat. A few tears managed to escape when he heard it, sighing in relief, "Th-Thank god…" he muttered to himself.

He next checked to see if he was breathing okay, and it seemed off so he performed CPR to remove the water from his lungs, which came out with some spluttering and coughing. He looked at his face to see if he was okay. Francis had his eyes barely open, squinting at him for a moment before he fainted and was unconscious again.

He sighed in relief again, rubbing his eyes. He was alright. After a moment of deliberation of what to do next, he lifted him up with a bit of difficulty and carried him back to his car parked at the cemetery. Buckling him up, he drove him back to his house to take care of him.


	6. Part 6

Francis woke again hours later. He coughed a little to clear his throat and sat up, looking around in confusion. He was in a quaint little home, sitting on a couch in front of a fireplace. The blanket covering him had been knitted, it was home made. Glancing around for a sign of where he was, he saw a photograph of England and America, when America was still a child, on the mantle of the fireplace. Oh, so he was at England's house.

He frowned and rubbed his face, trying to remember what happened. He was at the cemetery, he was really upset and just wanted to end it and be with her. But then England had shown up and talked him out of it, why? He bit his lip in thought. He remembered falling off, then gasped in shock. He'd almost died! He looked over his body, seeing it covered in bruises and scrapes which had mostly been patched up by someone, probably England.

He wrapped the blanket around himself and shakily got to his feet, wandering into the kitchen where he heard noises. England had his back to him and was making some tea, humming to himself absentmindedly. France leant against he doorway, watching him for a moment before clearing his throat. England spun around to look at him. "Oh, you're awake! You should go and lay back down, you're hurt." He said, dipping a teabag into his cup.

France shook his head, "Non, I'm fine…" he said quietly, hugging the blanket to cover him properly, "I… I thought I was going to die… and I realised, that's not what I want to do…"  
England looked a little relieved, knowing he wouldn't try that again any time soon. "Then don't jump of bridges, you fool!" he said sternly with a frown, taking out the teabag and putting it in the bin, adding a bit of milk to the tea and stirring it in with a teaspoon of sugar before turning back to him, sipping at it. "Please don't do that again…" he said, his voice softening.

France gulped a little, looking away. He wouldn't, he knew he wouldn't. He sighed sadly, tearing up, soon finding himself in tears. England frowned in confusion, "H-Hey, don't cry! You're fine." He said.  
France shook his head, "I… I just miss her, so much." He whispered, avoiding his gaze. England looked down guiltily, "I know, and I'm sorry. I know you hate me for it, but I'm truly sorry." He said.  
France shook his head again. "I don't blame you, I don't hate you for it…" he whispered, only crying more. England looked at him in confusion.

He didn't hate him or blame him for her death. There was only one person he could ever blame, one person he hated. Himself. He was the one who put her in that situation, he was the one who was too weak to protect her, he was the one who let her die. It was his fault, and he always remembered that.

He started to sink to the floor, heavy in tears of grief. England put down his teacup and walked over, catching him and guiding him back to the couch. He sat on the opposite end to give him space, "Don't cry, France. Just remember, she was always pure, she'll be an angel in heaven by now, watching over you and smiling."  
He nodded at his words, wiping his face on his now dry sleeve. He leant back on the couch and let his tears flow, whilst England just sat there for moral support.


End file.
